


Such Fools Of Us All

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage, Other, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:12:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3513104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s obvious to Constance and her husband Jacques that d’Artagnan, Armais, Porthos and Athos are all in love with one another. They find it frustrating that none of the four Musketeers seem inclined to actually do anything about it. Constance is determined but finds herself taking care of d’Artagnan due to his friends’ hurtful reactions. She thought Musketeers were supposed to be courageous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such Fools Of Us All

**Author's Note:**

> Set between series one and two, featuring a much more positive version of Constance and Bonacieux's marriage and no romantic relationship between Constance and d'Artagnan. The fic's title is a lyric from the song 'Love Makes Such Fools Of Us All' from the musical _Barnum._

 

 

 

They were arguing again. Constance cast a baleful look upwards and went to extract a couple of decent bottles from the wine cellar. Under these circumstances, her husband was as regular as clockwork. Sure enough, as soon as she had uncorked the first bottle; Jacques stomped into the kitchen with a furious expression.

 

“I cannot work under these conditions!”

 

Constance poured two generous glasses of wine and held one out to him, her eyebrows communicating her own frustration and also amusement at her husband’s dramatics. He took the glass with a huff and immediately drained half of its contents. Then he sagged back against the countertop, Constance settled back next to him, glad of his comforting nearness and glad of her own glass of wine. Like her husband, she emptied over half of it.

 

There was a thump, then Porthos strode down the stairs and out of the house immediately. Athos was the next to leave, pausing to doff his hat towards Constance with a strained apologetic expression. Constance had learned how to read Athos’ minutely changing face and had been delighted to find that he was wonderfully expressive in his own way; she just had to take the time to look.

 

Constance pressed fingers to her temple, trying to stave off the headache that she could feel blooming until Jacques drained his glass, put it down and brushing her fingers aside in order to provide her with a very comforting head massage. Constance sighed, her relief enormous, and leaned more of her weight towards her husband. She was immensely grateful, particularly at moments like this, that her marriage to Jacques had developed so much. Despite what d’Artagnan and the other Musketeers seemed to think, she was more than content with the husband her family had chosen for her. She recognised that Jacques was not the easiest man to get to know, he could be short and dismissive, particularly with d’Artagnan and his fellow Musketeers, and seeing past Jacques’ prickly fussy exterior could be a challenge. But it could be done and it was worth it, Constance was absolutely sure of that.

 

There was silence now, which meant d’Artagnan was at the mooning and suffering stage of his evening. Constance drained her wine glass.

 

“If I find him in the wine cellar after breakfast one more time...” Jacques trailed off into unspeakable frustration, his thoughts gliding in the same direction as Constance's, as they so often did.

 

Constance pressed her lips together. “I know love can be blind but this is completely unbelievable.”

 

Jacques pressed a kiss to her head and then refilled both their wine glasses. Constance wound an arm around him; she really did love this man. Neither of them had fully known what they were allowing into their home on an alarmingly regular basis when they’d agreed to let d’Artagnan lodge with them. More than once Jacques had seriously considered kicking d’Artagnan out, more than once Constance had agreed that it was the best course of action. But d'Artagnan usually behaved in a particularly endearing manner at that point – helping Brigette carry her groceries home or drum up more high-born clientèle for Jacques – and the matter was dropped until similar trouble reared its head once again.

 

It wasn’t the number of times that Jacques and Constance found themselves tending to and harbouring injured Musketeers who ate and drank them out of house and home, or how often they had to lie to the Cardinal’s Red Guards or how little privacy they now seemed to have. It was, rather ridiculously, how entirely oblivious d’Artagnan, Athos, Aramis and Porthos seemed to be about how very much in love they all were with each other.

 

Tonight had hosted another of the group’s occasionally-explosive arguments – Aramis was currently spending time with a Count and Countess, he wasn't shirking his duties, in fact he was on a mission that called for his abundant charm and enthusiasm. The others had grown...distempered about this and about his absence in general. Athos and Porthos had glanced at Constance sometimes as though...she wasn’t sure what their expressions had meant. She hoped that Porthos wouldn’t acquire too many bruises and that Athos wouldn’t empty too many wine bottles before Aramis’ return. D’Artagnan took to missing meals at times like these, it was very disturbing.

 

Well, Constance had had enough. She drained her wine glass and put it down firmly. Jacques slanted a questioning expectant glance her way. Constance loved that he did not wish for her to keep silent at such times.

 

“Something has to be done.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“So...” Constance picked up her empty glass and clinked it against Jacques’ meaningfully. “We will.”

 

Jacques’ eyebrows arched beautifully. They were alone so Constance pressed notably close and smiled when he leaned down to kiss her. He tasted of wine and the pins that he held between his teeth as he worked. She adjusted his collar when they parted, his expression softened in a way that only she got to see. She always held the memory of such expressions covetously close to her heart. Now was no exception.

 

“We could still throw him out,” Jacques commented, longingly.

 

“That won’t solve anything, the same thing would only happen under somebody else’s roof. Somebody who isn’t nearly as tolerant.”

 

Somebody who would most likely be only too willing to tell the Cardinal about the behaviour of their lodger and his friends, knowing how well they would be rewarded. A shiver flowed down Constance’s spine and hardened her resolve. They didn’t need to be so unhappy, wallowing separately in martyred lovesickness, occasionally biting with frustrated need and jealousy, driving Constance and Jacques quite mad. They were probably deeply annoying Captain Treville as well.

 

So, if they weren’t going to open their eyes or behave in a more civilised and less wilfully ridiculous manner, then Constance was going to see that they did, for her and her husband’s sake and for Paris'.

 

“I suppose somebody ought to take their behaviour in hand,” mused Jacques in a long-suffering tone.

 

But he kissed Constance lingeringly and topped up her wine glass. Constance felt like a truly lucky woman, and wonderfully she knew - from the look on his face, how his body language bent in public and the words that he spoke only to her - that Jacques always knew that he was a lucky man too.

 

*

 

As tempting as it was, Constance couldn’t merely lock the four of them in a room until they actually addressed the prevalent matter. Only the wine cellar would likely effectively contain them and Jacques was horrified at the thought of how much wine he would lose during such a venture. Also, the Musketeers had been on many missions together that’d involved them having to share close quarters for long periods of time, Constance had heard several stories from d’Artagnan, and yet still none of them had acted on what was plainly obvious.

 

Constance sighed and practised her swordwork. D’Artagnan tutored her when he had the time, Constance enjoyed learning. She’d always wanted to learn how to wield a blade, when she was young she’d often admired the soldiers that she’d witnessed addressing trouble with skill and dexterity. And she liked the idea of being able to defend herself, particularly when she so often provided shelter for several Musketeers.

 

So she could now use a sword and a pistol and practised both as often as she could. She was beginning to find it quite relaxing, to go through familiar movements; it seemed to clear her mind. Jacques didn’t exactly approve of her lessons but she knew from his expression that he was impressed by what she was capable of. He would get used to it, he had done before when Constance had grasped hold of an unnerving new venture and he would do again.

 

Now she was glad of the time alone and the chance to think about things clearly. How could she aid her friends in seeing what was so obvious? Could they have reservations about the idea of such a relationship? Even in Paris that was possible. Aramis seemed to have no qualms about unusual arrangements from the stories she’d heard far too many fragments of, though Athos was extremely silent about his own experiences or preferences or any notion towards matters of the heart. He had suffered excruciating heartbreak, that much Constance knew from d’Artagnan, but she had seen Athos’ expression move more frequently in the company of the other three Musketeers and his eyes seemed brighter too. She had seen the restrained longing in his face when he thought no one was looking. He loved them and he deserved more than just watching and basking in their company.

 

And Porthos...There was a sound behind her and Constance turned to find Porthos himself watching her, looking both amused and impressed. Constance lifted her chin defensively and flicked her sword's blade towards him. She wasn’t ashamed of what she was doing and if he laughed at her...

 

“You know what you’re doing with that,” Porthos commented.

 

Constance smiled, pleased. Porthos approached her slowly, eyeing the pistol that she’d placed safely nearby on top of a barrel.

 

“It’s good; we bring you a lot of trouble. You should know how to deal with it.”

 

Constance nodded. It was rare that the Musketeers acknowledged how their actions affected her and Jacques. Porthos was always polite to her, his manner not as engrained as Athos’ or as charm-laden as Aramis’, but there was always an honesty to him, a comfort in his own skin, which Constance appreciated. He could cut through pretensions magnificently and she had seen how Aramis in particular eyed him with a sort of adoration that she couldn’t believe Porthos himself hadn’t noticed.

 

Now he was looking at her speculatively, Constance gave him a warning look, “What?”

 

“D’Artagnan can teach you the blade. If you like, I could show you what to do when you haven’t got a sword to defend yourself.”

 

Constance kept the sword that d’Artagnan had given her to practice with in the kitchen pantry. And life was dangerous in Paris when associated with these particular Musketeers, Constance honestly enjoyed the excitement even if she would prefer less injuries and less mooning. With an inner chill, she thought of moments when it would have been extremely helpful to know how best to defend herself unarmed. Porthos was practical and she appreciated that. She didn’t appreciate his next comment though as he removed his jacket and pistols.

 

“Though I doubt d’Artagnan’ll thank me.”

 

Constance considered pointing the sword close to his throat. Instead she stilled and caught him with a very pointed look that she wasn't going to begin any lessons until he explained himself. Porthos soon offered a disturbing explanation.

 

“We thought that you’d been the one teaching _him_.”

 

Teaching d’Artagnan...the expression on Porthos’ face told her far too much. Constance’s eyes widened and she thrust her sword at him, causing Porthos to dodge neatly out of the way.

 

“I’m a married woman!”

 

“This is Paris.”

 

Constance glared again and feinted as though to jab the sword one way before slicing it another. Porthos, drawing his own blade, easily parried but nodded at what she’d tried. Constance nodded back and continued to verbally rail against him.

 

“And I am _happily_ married. I don’t know why that’s so difficult for you all to grasp.” Constance let out a frustrated breath and tried to get past Porthos’ guard, pressing forward so that he was forced to take a couple steps back. “I know none of you appreciate this but I love my husband and I wish you’d all respect that.”

 

She smacked her sword hard against his for emphasis as she spoke before drawing back, high emotion coursing through her. It wasn’t much to ask, was it? But she’d heard their comments and had seen their glances at each other around Jacques. It never failed to rile her, especially now she knew that Aramis, Porthos and Athos had apparently also believed she had forsaken her marriage vows and her good common sense. D’Artagnan was important to her but in a vastly different way. She loved her husband and the life she had with him.

 

“There’s little honour in your accusations,” she pointed out quietly. “What must your opinion of me be if you think I would break my marriage vows so easily?”

 

Porthos looked sorry and a little awkward, his brow creasing, but he stepped forward. “We weren’t trying to offend you. This job, you have to assume the worst of people; it’s the only way to stay a step ahead.”

 

Constance dug the tip of her sword into the ground. “I’m not part of your job, Porthos.”

 

“I know and we were glad, that d’Artagnan had found someone to make him happy outside of all that. He denied it but we were sure, from the way he talked about you.”

 

That wasn’t the way Constance had read their expressions around d’Artagnan. Perhaps they were pleased on his behalf but they’d never seemed _happy_ about it. This entire situation got more ludicrous by the moment. She dug deeper into the mud.

 

“I care about d’Artagnan but I don’t have _designs_ on him.”

 

Porthos looked at her closely and nodded slowly. Constance smiled a little, to break the tension. Now that she had been clear about that, there were other concerns that she could also bring clarity to.

 

“And he grew up on a farm, Porthos. He’s not an innocent.”

 

Porthos’ expression did something very interesting. “And you know this because...?”

 

Constance smirked a little. Soon after d’Artagnan’s arrival, she’d walked in on him getting far too acquainted with Madeline, one of two maids that regularly worked in the Bonacieux house, and she’d seen him flirt with the boys who looked after the horses across the street.

 

“Because I know what I’ve seen.” She left it at that and laid her sword down on the same barrel as her pistol. “Now, I believe this was going to be a lesson.”

 

*

 

Later, she changed into less dirt-stained clothing and got dinner prepared for Jacques who had been delivering dresses and cloaks to some very appreciative customers. As soon as he returned and sat down to eat, she revealed the illuminating conversation that she’d had with Porthos.

 

Jacques wore a combination of outrage and amusement, “He thought what?!”

 

“It does explain why he, Aramis and Athos have been reluctant to approach d’Artagnan.”

 

Jacques did not look entirely quelled. Constance offered him more rabbit and kissed him. She understood his anger; he had often disapproved of the Musketeers, particularly their habit of bringing danger to his house and how d’Artagnan was not always able to promptly pay the rent. This would only make the situation worse.

 

“This doesn’t explain why they haven’t approached each other,” Jacques pointed out, looking as though he wished that none of them would ever darken his doorway again. “It’s not as though they haven’t had ample opportunity.”

 

Constance sighed and thought about Athos’ broken heart, Aramis’ apparent desire to charm and flirt with everyone – perhaps the others believed him incapable of anything more? Or didn’t wish to tether him? Porthos...she wasn’t sure about. Some things they all kept very private.

 

“Those three, and d’Artagnan, they look so in awe of each other sometimes.”

 

Jacques made a noise like agreement and held her hand. They were still ruminating when d’Artagnan appeared via the back door. He looked at the two of them and then made as though to leave.

 

“I could-?”

 

“You could,” agreed Jacques. “You’ve caused enough trouble today. Come on, your food will get cold.”

 

D’Artagnan looked confused, then tentatively stepped towards the table and helped himself to a sizeable dinner portion. He sat down beside Constance. There was a new scab across his forearm and the laces of his shirt had been torn away again.

 

“What have I...? What trouble have I caused?” d’Artagnan wanted to know, quietly.

 

“Your friends have revealed some very disrespectful ideas about my wife,” Jacques replied, filling his own wine glass.

 

D’Artagnan looked even more confused so Constance explained, “Apparently, you and I have been engaged in a relationship that I knew nothing about.”

 

D’Artagnan looked incredulous and blushed vividly. “I’m so sorry, Constance. I keep telling them there’s nothing going on.”

 

“If you blush like that, no wonder they don’t believe you,” Constance remarked, thanking Jacques with a nod when he filled a wine glass for her too. “Of course they don’t _want_ to believe you anyway.”

 

D’Artagnan’s expression became baffled and the colour didn’t quite leave his cheeks. Jacques shook his head and briefly raised Constance’s hand to his lips; d’Artagnan looked far too surprised. Constance eyed him pointedly; she was seriously contemplating not serving him any dessert.

 

D’Artagnan seemed to pull his attention back to Constance’s words. “What do you mean; they don’t want to believe me?”

 

Jacques sighed deeply and Constance felt like echoing him. Instead, she drank the wine that Jacques had so kindly served her. It had become vividly apparent that the only way to see this through was to tell this particular group of Musketeers what they were so unbelievably or more likely wilfully missing.

 

“The way they look at you, d’Artagnan, I don’t know how you haven’t noticed. They _adore_ you.”

 

D’Artagnan’s eyes went wide, his face pinked again and he shook his head. Of course he did. Jacques looked immensely frustrated, sharing a glance with Constance. As a rule, d’Artagnan was not shy but the regard that he had for his friends clearly hindered his usually brashly-confident manner when it came to such matters. It also seemed to hinder his ability to see what was so very obvious.

 

“They’re not-.”

 

“They are and they do,” Jacques sharply interrupted. “Your friends are in love with you, they have been for some time and for whatever reason - ‘honour’ or believing you otherwise engaged or preposterously uninterested - they have kept their peace whilst greatly disturbing ours.”

 

D’Artagnan looked remarkably stunned; Constance couldn’t help smiling at his expression. Jacques drained his wine glass and turned his attention back to his meal, disentangling his hand from Constance’s after a private caress of her wrist. Constance watched d’Artagnan, he seemed to be having trouble processing Jacques’ words. She touched a hand to his back, startling him out of his no-doubt whirling thoughts.

 

D’Artagnan managed an odd-looking grimace, not really a smile at all. “Why would they want me? They’re so-.”

 

Constance’s grasp on him firmed up. “They’re just men, good men mostly, and ones that care about you, so much so that they’ve prevented themselves from being happy, with each other and with you.”

 

D’Artagnan looked pained and surprised. “But they _are_ together. I’ve seen the way they look at each other.”

 

Jacques and Constance exchanged a quick disbelieving look – d’Artagnan had seen the love his friends wore plainly but not the clear yearning that underlined how they felt about him or how they ridiculously held back from each other? Unbelievable. Jacques firmly poured d’Artagnan a large glass of wine, something else which made d’Artagnan look incredulous. Constance decided to serve him dessert after all; he was absolutely going to need it.

 

*

 

Things did change after that, at least d’Artagnan did. He was friendlier to Jacques, which seemed to surprise Aramis, Porthos and Athos. D’Artagnan had apparently begun to notice the humour buried in many of Jacques’ words and even began teasing him in return, understanding the tone of Jacques’ responses at last. It pleased Constance a lot to see that, especially since d’Artagnan didn’t now look suspicious or disbelieving at how Constance and Jacques interacted.

 

“You don’t always talk to each other like you’re in love,” d’Artagnan commented one morning, watching Constance shell peas in the kitchen.

 

Constance arched a disbelieving look over her shoulder at him, “Because love only has one manner?”

 

D’Artagnan frowned and then looked thoughtful, eating a handful of shelled peas absently. Constance smacked his wrist and took the bowl away. D’Artagnan protested but still looked thoughtful. Constance could feel the questions hovering behind his lips and it didn't take long for him to voice them.

 

“It wasn’t a love match, was it though? In the beginning.”

 

“In the beginning, no,” Constance grabbed the last handful of peapods. “It was a good match and that was what mattered most.”

 

“But not to you.”

 

He sounded so sure. Constance shook her head; d’Artagnan thought he knew her well and he did, mostly. His headstrong determination could be a real irritation. She concentrated on the vegetables in her hands instead.

 

“My father knew that marrying me to Jacques Bonacieux would give my family status and security. I couldn’t refuse.”

 

Not when her family needed that security, not when Constance knew that she wasn’t likely to find a better suitor for benefiting her family. So she'd married Jacques and had folded away her own foolish dreams as she'd set about being a good wife to a respectable businessman. The situation between them had slowly changed though and Constance knew that she was lucky.

 

She smiled, thinking of how she had come to know Jacques, discovering that past his brisk certain and somewhat dismissive demeanour was also an easily bruised and very careful man, who wasn’t as outraged as he seemed when she dared to disagree with him. Their marriage wasn’t full of the kind of breathless wild passion that Constance had once so childishly dreamed of but it was warm and became important to her in a manner that she truly hadn’t expected.

 

She shook away her thoughts in time to hear d’Artagnan remark “You don’t regret it.”

 

He sounded sure again and Constance nodded, bright-eyed, wiping her hands clean, “Not at all.”

 

*

 

Once d’Artagnan was certain of something, he carried it with him without question. So now he teased Constance and Jacques and spent more time with both of them. Jacques was pleased and told Constance that the boy was showing a vast improvement, if not in manners than almost certainly in temperament. Constance laughed.

 

“You like having such an ally.”

 

Jacques didn’t deny it. The other Musketeers were a little...surprised by how friendly d’Artagnan now seemed with Jacques, Constance wondered from some of the looks she received just what they now suspected was occurring. Jacques was thoroughly enjoying himself though, she could tell from the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.

 

Whilst that was pleasant, other things stayed regrettably the same. Aramis, Porthos and Athos still hadn’t revealed their affections to each other or to d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan himself now watched the three of them very intently and he soon began to look touched by something dawning and as though he was preparing to actually say something. A miracle. Constance felt so glad for him, so contented, and Jacques looked so knowing and similarly contented.

 

Then the four Musketeers were sent on a mission away from Paris. It was due to last a week, possible two. When their absence dragged into a month, Constance wrote a letter to Captain Treville, worry prickling at her.

 

The Captain wrote back to say that he had Musketeers searching for the group and that he would inform Constance of any further developments. Constance’s hands shook but she continued to cook, launder and practice with sword and pistol. This wasn’t the first time that d’Artagnan and the others had been delayed, he had always returned before.

 

Jacques held her close and murmured about the atrocity of Musketeer timekeeping.

 

*

 

It was another two weeks before they returned. D’Artagnan was the only one who came straight to the Bonacieuxs, Constance nearly dropped the plates she was carrying when she saw him standing in the doorway. He looked at her, shadowed and devastated behind an expression that he probably hoped was blank. Then he lurched away up the stairs towards his room. Constance put a pot of water on to heat, told Katherine the maid to call her once it was warmed and then hurried to Jacques’ workroom to inform him of d’Artagnan’s reappearance.

 

Jacques was stitching a button onto a shirt; he took one glance at Constance and got to his feet immediately.

 

“What news?”

 

“His room, he...something happened.”

 

“Something always happens.”

 

But Jacques drew her close and they held each other for a long moment, their breathing combing loudly, before they left the room together. Katherine appeared to tell Constance that the water was ready, Jacques headed down to the cellar for the right bottle of wine. Constance carried a large jug of the heated water and some bread rolls up to d’Artagnan’s room. Her body jangled with worry as she knocked. He had been able to walk, he hadn’t been bleeding. What had happened?

 

There was a murmur from inside his room, Constance pushed her way past the door. D’Artagnan was sat on his bed, staring down at his feet. He’d taken his boots off but hadn’t gotten much further, thank goodness. He didn’t even react to Constance’s presence. She filled up his wash bowl and soaked a cloth, approaching him with it. She’d only seen him this blank on a couple of occasions, neither had been pleasant and had left scars.

 

“D’Artagnan?”

 

He lifted his gaze and Constance sighed at what she saw there – heartbreak. Oh, she was going to _kill_ them.

 

“What did they do?”

 

D’Artagnan didn’t answer at first. He took the wet cloth from her and stripped his shirt off so that he could attend to the scrapes and cuts that he had acquired during the mission. Usually Aramis saw to any injuries, the fact that he hadn’t said a lot. Constance knew that she wasn’t going to like this. Jacques clearly realised too because he arrived in the doorway, wine bottle in hand, and didn’t say a word.

 

Perhaps it was the combination of both Constance and Jacques being present because d’Artagnan began to speak.

 

“There was an ambush. Athos and I got separated from Aramis and Porthos, we were cornered in a ruined cottage but there was a cellar and the men who were attacking us left suddenly, like they’d been called away. The cellar door was jammed shut; Athos thought it was caused by our pursuers, making sure we couldn’t escape with our lives. We tried to lever our way out but we couldn’t and the hours...”

 

As d’Artagnan tailed off, Jacques placed the bottle of wine in d’Artagnan’s hands. He didn’t even insist on d’Artagnan using a wine glass. D’Artagnan drank from it gratefully, his eyes still dull and wretched. Constance sat on the bed next to him, making sure that he ate some bread too. Jacques stayed nearby.

 

“We were there for days. We slept, tried to get out and tried not to think about food. And we talked.”

 

Constance’s heart turned over. D’Artagnan had been imprisoned before, he’d faced death with his friends and neither he nor they had actually admitted how they truly felt about one another. But, maybe because of the conversation he’d had with Constance and Jacques, maybe because of what he’d seen when he’d recently looked at his friends in a new way, this time had clearly been different.

 

“You told him,” Jacques surmised her thoughts.

 

D’Artagnan barely nodded, drinking more wine before speaking, “Athos looked... he just looked sorry. He said something about me being much better off with someone else. I got angry and...said some things and soon after that Aramis and Porthos found the cottage and managed to pry blow open the cellar door. They could tell something had happened, I couldn’t touch them, I just couldn’t, and I said some more things, about how I felt about all of them, their expressions were like...like they couldn’t speak to me. Then they looked at me like Athos had. I came straight here.”

 

D’Artagnan’s head was dipping. Constance looked at Jacques, he looked narrowly furious, summing up exactly how Constance felt too. She was going to deal with d'Artagnan's friends later. What if he’d gotten into a fight on his way here? What if his temper had been sparked off by something or someone else? What if the Cardinals Red Guards had found him? Constance’s fingers clenched hard but she forced her voice to be gentler than she felt.

 

“Clean yourself up, you need to sleep.”

 

“With the window open.”

 

Of course, after his time in the cellar, d’Artagnan needed fresh air. Constance nodded, pressing a hand to his shoulder as she got up. D’Artagnan twitched into her touch. Jacques clasped Constance’s hand, for both their sakes. Constance took a deep breath but it was Jacques who spoke.

 

“It has always been their loss.”

 

D’Artagnan’s answering smile was heartbreaking.

 

*

 

Once Jacques and Constance had left the room to give d’Artagnan privacy, they headed as one towards the kitchen. It was always the room where Constance felt she could think most clearly, well there and wherever she managed to gain privacy in order to practice her swordwork. In the kitchen, she could find many ways to keep her hands busy and therefore her mind clear. She knew that Jacques felt the same way about his workroom. Sure enough, there was his bag on the kitchen table, no doubt containing a few pieces to finish.

 

Constance grabbed a clove of garlic to peel and dice; they’d need it for dinner. Jacques looked as drawn, tense and furious as she felt, especially when he said “Musketeers cause _nothing_ but trouble.”

 

The garlic crushed easily beneath Constance’s knife. “He’s been braver than all of them and this is how they reward him. They probably think it’s _better_ this way. If I was their Captain, I’d...”

 

Constance’s furious movements slowed as her thoughts began knitting quickly together. Jacques looked at her a little impatiently but he stayed silent for now. Constance put down her knife.

 

“We’ll write to the Captain, d’Artagnan needs to take leave to recover.”

 

Jacques nodded in agreement, his hands sorting through his bag, pulling cloth free to work on as well as his small cushion of fine needles. He needed to occupy himself and think clearly too.

 

“And leave from _them_ will only be a blessing.”

 

Absolutely. Constance left the room to retrieve paper and ink. Her hands were steady as she wrote a letter informing the Captain that it was imperative that d’Artagnan take a leave of absence from his Musketeer duties in order to recover from his confinement. She left space at the bottom and then paused, wetting the nib of her quill with ink.

 

“He needs more than leave,” she said quietly. “He needs total absence.”

 

Jacques laid a hand on her shoulder; she intertwined her fingers with his and pressed her lips to his knuckles. The pain of working each day with the men he loved, especially now they knew and had rejected him, would only whither and diminish him. Constance doubted d’Artagnan would now be able to do the job that he was so proud of to the best of his ability and that would pain him too. This would be best for everyone and perhaps then his friends would realise the true depth of his feeling and perhaps the depth of their own too.

 

“They don’t deserve him,” Jacques said quietly and definitively.

 

Constance squeezed his hand and finished the letter, outlining to Captain Treville what she believed would be best. She did not say what lay between d’Artagnan and his friends but simply stated that the bond between the friends had suffered unforgivably so it would be best in future if d'Artagnan worked with other Musketeers. Captain Treville was an intelligent man, Constance was sure that he would understand.

 

She folded and sealed the letter but went to speak to d’Artagnan before seeing the letter on its way. D’Artagnan was clean now and had changed into fresher clothing – a nightshirt at least – as he lay beneath the covers of his bed. Constance told him concisely what she had written and left the decision up to him.

 

D’Artagnan stared at her for a moment, several emotions chasing through his expression before it was overcome by deep pain, laced with despair and weariness. He nodded.

 

“Thank you, Constance.”

 

That told Constance everything – he wasn’t fighting her on this. She left him to sleep, with the promise of a good meal in several hours. Jacques was still sewing at the kitchen table, his expression deeply concentrated. He paused when he saw her return and immediately pulled a small purse of coins from his belt, to cover the cost of the message’s delivery.

 

It was easy enough to find a boy outside willing to take the message to Captain Treville at the barracks. Constance paid him well, telling him not to allow anyone save the Captain to read it. The boy was able to describe the Captain in detail so Constance gave him the coins and watched him leave. Her heart was heavy and her mood still angry.

 

She headed back into the kitchen and began cooking a good hearty meal for d’Artagnan. He would need it once he woke. Jacques stayed with her, his stitching and cutting as furious as it should be, considering.

 

*

 

Captain Treville wrote back immediately, sending his reply with the same boy. He said that under the circumstances a rest for d’Artagnan was a sound plan. He requested that Constance relay a further update to him in a week if that was amenable, perhaps then d’Artagnan’s future plans would be clearer. He said that he would inform d’Artagnan’s comrades of his condition and tat he would also reveal to Aramis, Porthos and Athos his displeasure that d’Artagnan would likely be unable to work alongside them again.

 

Constance could sense what felt like frustration in the Captain’s reply but he had not commanded that d’Artagnan return immediately, he had not refused the suggestion that d’Artagnan work with other Musketeers upon his return. On some level, he appeared to understand.

 

Constance was pleased that the intelligence she had credited the Captain with had not been misplaced.

 

She told the maids, and Jacques told those who worked for him, that Aramis, Porthos and Athos were not to be admitted to the house and no messages from any of them were to be passed onto d’Artagnan either. They had hurt d’Artagnan, a fact which everyone reacted to. D’Artagnan was well-liked.

 

Constance made sure that d’Artagnan ate and drank regularly. She had a doctor check him thoroughly as well. The doctor examined d’Artagnan briskly and reported that other than a recent lack of food and sleep, d’Artagnan was in good condition for a soldier. Constance thanked him as she paid him for his time and services.

 

Aramis wouldn’t have asked for a franc and would have insisted on doing an examination himself but Aramis had lost that right.

 

D’Artagnan did not appear to have much energy or spirit. He slept mostly, regaining what he had lost. Constance thought that she would have to drag him from his room perhaps but to her surprise d’Artagnan refused to sit and stew for long. After several days rest, he seemed determined to move and do something, even if the pain and heartbreak had not left him. His energy had returned even if his heart had not.

 

He began to eat at the kitchen table instead of in his room and he walked around the house in order to lose the stiffness that now lay in his legs. Jacques threatened to see him sew but d’Artagnan surprised them again by actually desiring to do so. He could sew competently enough, it was a skill many soldiers gained because they often needed to repair clothes and sometimes skin too. Jacques was pleased to have a pupil and patted a hand to d’Artagnan’s shoulder when he felt d’Artagnan had done particularly well.

 

“He is not completely himself,” Jacques declared one night whilst lying beside his wife, the two of them talking quietly by candlelight. “But he is returning somewhat.”

 

Constance nodded, it was something. D’Artagnan did tend to press a little closer now, he wasn’t improper but there was a tactile character to him that Constance had always known was there, tangled up in his youth and in the loss of his parents. Now it was showing through a little more, his bravado was not so layered. Constance did not pull away from him, neither did Jacques.

 

*

 

The maids reported that Aramis and Porthos had both approached them at different times, hoping to gain news of d’Artagnan. The maids as one had refused. Athos had not spoken to them but he had been seen watching the house on more than one occasion. D’Artagnan did not leave the Bonacieuxs’ house a great deal yet; for now, Constance agreed with that choice.

 

So she got the maids to discern when the house was unwatched so that she she and d’Artagnan could leave to visit one of the sparse areas where they liked to practice with sword and pistol. They avoided the place where Constance and Porthos had once spoken and sparred. D’Artagnan looked pale and wan but Constance still wasn’t able to best him too often. His smile was not as riotous as it had been before but it was still present.

 

“You’re really improving,” he told her.

 

Constance smiled and reloaded her pistol. “So are you.”

 

They didn’t talk about it much; d’Artagnan was remarkably quiet on the subject. But Constance saw his hands clenching so hard that his knuckles whitened and how yearning and heartbroken he still often looked. She didn’t tell that he shouldn’t be nor did she tell him that he’d grow to love others in time. She didn’t tell him that he’d heal. D’Artagnan was being determined and so was she.

 

When she left the house for chores and essentials and visiting friends, she took different complicated routes and told those that asked that d’Artagnan had been hurt during Musketeer business and that he hoped to return to duty again soon. Jacques said the same thing when visiting customers.

 

In the evenings, d’Artagnan did not go out. He sat with Constance and Jacques in their salon and drank wine companionably and made conversation. He and Jacques liked exchanging wits, it made Constance smile and feel relieved. More than once, when several bottles had been drained, they helped d’Artagnan upstairs to his room.

 

When Constance and Jacques lay together now, there was a faintly guilty edge to the way their bodies touched and pressed but they could not stop holding each other either. They found such great comfort in one another, comfort and exquisite release from the tension and worry. They did so quietly in case d'Artagnan overheard and felt worse.

 

*

 

The day came for Constance to visit the barracks. D’Artagnan knew about it, he watched her carefully as she appeared in the kitchen, dressed in blue and pink, a hat artfully arranged atop her long red hair. Jacques had already told her that she looked particularly pleasing.

 

She ate her breakfast and then gathered what she'd need. Jacques kissed her cheek a hairsbreadth from her mouth and palmed her shoulders, looking her firmly in the eye.

 

“Have fun.”

 

He said it seriously and Constance offered him a glimpse of a smile to say that she understood. She wasn’t going to be swayed, she was going to stand firm and if she ran into Aramis, Porthos and Athos, she was going to ensure that they felt her displeasure.

 

D’Artagnan’s brow pinched as though he knew what she was going to do.

 

“Constance.-“

 

“Someone needs to tell them,” she reminded him. “Captain Treville can only say so much. They need to respect your position and not treat you like a child.”

 

D’Artagnan didn’t look pleased but he nodded. When Jacques moved, d’Artagnan reached and grasped Constance’s hands. Constance could feel his sword calluses and the marks that he had gained growing up on a Gascon farm, a farm that no longer existed. He had lost so much.

 

He took a breath and spoke quiet and sincere, “I don’t know what I would have done without you, without you both. I can’t...thank you.”

 

Constance squeezed his hands gently and then released them so that she could touch his cheek, like a reassurance for them both. D’Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment, drinking in her touch. Jacques shifted a little closer to him; it all seemed to settle something under d’Artagnan’s skin. Good.

 

“You would have done the same,” Constance told him.

 

D’Artagnan smiled because he would have. He looked less sallow now; the scrapes he’d gained from his mission were almost healed. Physically, he was much better.

 

“Good luck,” was all he said as Constance left.

 

Constance squared her shoulders and strode towards the barracks. It was a lovely day, she was not going to see it ruined.

 

*

 

Several groups of Musketeers poured down the street as Constance neared her destination. It seemed as though something was always calling for their services. Constance watched the familiar weather-worn uniforms stream past; she could remember clearly how d’Artagnan had looked among them. She pressed on.

 

Inside the barracks, it was relatively quiet. Constance nodded towards the stable boy that she recognised from previous visits and told him to inform Captain Treville that Constance Bonacieux had arrived to see him. It was inevitable that while she waited, d’Artagnan’s friends would find her.

 

“Constance!”

 

Her back stiffened at that particular voice and she fought to keep her composure as she turned. Aramis, Porthos and Athos, naturally together, strode towards her. Constance swallowed down most of the retorts that immediately sprang to mind. She was here to talk to Captain Treville, almost certainly the most reasonable man in the entire barracks, she was not here to say things that she would only regret if others overheard them. It didn’t matter how tempted she was to shout at them. It didn’t.

 

All three of them looked cautious but there was something in their eyes, something eager or was desperate the better word? Constance eyed them, Jacques and d’Artagnan would want to know every detail. Aramis was the first to speak; his expression full of concern.

 

“How is d’Artagnan?”

 

Constance raised a single eyebrow. “Your Captain didn’t pass on the news?”

 

Aramis seemed to wince a little and Constance wondered exactly what their Captain had said to them. She hoped it’d been painful.

 

“He told us d’Artagnan was recovering,” Porthos put in, quieter than he normally was, his eyes even darker. “Wasn’t really much to go on.”

 

Constance inclined her head. “Yes, my maids tell me they’ve been pestered for news.”

 

Her tone was accusatory but neither Aramis nor Porthos looked exactly sorry. Athos spoke now, measured and even.

 

“Can you blame us?”

 

Constance whirled on him, her temper riled and her eyes flashing. How could he say that? “Blame you? I-.”

 

“Madame Bonacieux.”

 

Captain Treville stood on the walkway outside his office. He’d removed his hat already and nodded his head towards her politely. He had excellent timing and apparently knew it from the look that he shot at his soldiers.

 

“I believe we have much to discuss,” he continued.

 

“Indeed.”

 

Constance shot a last disbelieving and loaded look towards the Musketeers before walking quickly up the stairs towards the Captain. He swept his office door open, allowing her to enter first.

 

“My apologies for the mess and for the fact that you are currently housing a no-doubt restless Musketeer.”

 

Constance allowed herself a smile and sat down opposite the Captain, his desk lodged between them, “A situation unchanged since we first met him. He’s able to practice with his sword and pistol most days, I’m sure that helps.”

 

The Captain nodded, looking pleased at the news. His voice then dropped quieter and Constance could see the worry he was bearing. “He is recovering?”

 

“Physically, he is strong and he sleeps through the night but I cannot claim that what drives him is as healthy as it once was.”

 

Captain Treville ran a hand over his beard and looked thoughtful. Constance wondered how many wilful young Musketeers he had overseen over the years, how many friendships he had witnessed becoming so disrupted. She had heard Athos speak very highly of his Captain, as had the others, and whenever Constance had dealt with him he had been a most reasonable pragmatic man. He led a group of soldiers, he tried to install discipline in them and ensure that they didn’t shame their King or country. It was not a job Constance envied.

 

Finally he spoke again, “Whatever passed before and during that mission, I believed that if I allowed time to pass, a resolution would be found, for better or worse, as has happened before.”

 

Constance nodded. “At present, I can only say that, for his own good and for his future as a Musketeer, d’Artagnan should become acquainted with others in your regiment.”

 

Captain Treville nodded. He was considering her words rather than dismissing them as some would have done. He wanted what was best for the King but also what was best for his men. He was rising higher in Constance’s estimations. She got to her feet.

 

“I will keep you informed, Captain.”

 

“Thank you, Madame. Tell the boy he is missed, and not just by them.”

 

Constance smiled; it was the sort of news that would only soothe d’Artagnan, “I will. Thank you, Captain.”

 

It was more than she could have asked for and she left the Captain’s office feeling settled. Of course, outside in the yard, Aramis, Porthos and Athos waited for her. None of them pretended to do anything other than watch as she descended the stairs. Constance treated them to a flat unimpressed gaze and then headed straight for the yard’s gates. There was a scramble of noise behind her.

 

She thought about quickening her pace but already knew that it would be futile. So she stopped; her jaw tense and her gaze bright with warning. The three Musketeers looked at her, all wearing a familiar expression. She’d often seen d’Artagnan wear such a look.

 

“Speak if you must,” she told them.

 

“Constance,” Aramis sounded pleading, his expressive face displaying his worry and something else that he still wouldn’t put into words. “We need to, we ask only to see him.”

 

“Just a quick visit, we won’t even talk to him,” Porthos added.

 

Constance snorted and didn’t care how unladylike the sound was. “You really don’t understand, do you? Any of you.”

 

“He does not truly know what he asks,” Athos said, slicing through any more pretence. “The risk, to us, to him, to yourself and your husband. It should not be borne.”

 

Constance’s glare was utterly furious. “He’s not a _child._ He has lived and lost too much already and when he was braver than all of you, when he actually voiced what none of you dare to admit to each other or to him, you let him fall, alone.”

 

“He doesn’t-.”

 

“He does,” she cut off Porthos with a fury and insistence that made the three of them pause. “Why didn’t you show him a little of the respect and honour that you Musketeers are apparently so famed for? Courage? D’Artagnan’s the only one of you who possesses any.”

 

She shook her head; even now the three of them were full of denial, as though they were saving d’Artagnan this way instead of hurting him. They were such fools.

 

“You three deserve each other, you don’t deserve _him_.”

 

With that, she left. She was not called back. Her anger seethed as she marched through the streets towards her house. When she arrived home, Jacques immediately went to find a couple of bottles of wine. He poured her a large glass and watched her drink half of it before he asked what had occurred.

 

Constance took a deep ragged breath, “The Captain is far too good a man to be left coping with _them_.”

 

Jacques hmmed and poured himself some wine. He paused only a moment before asking, “And them? I trust they made an appearance?”

 

Constance drank the rest of her wine. “They think he’s an infant who must be saved from himself.”

 

Jacques rolled his eyes, “Of course. It hasn’t occurred to them that he has had time to consider the risks and has still deemed them, for some reason, worthy enough?”

 

It was a rhetorical question of course. How was it that Jacques, who didn’t particularly care for those Musketeers, hadn’t attempted to prevent d’Artagnan from pursuing them, but the Musketeers themselves, much more reckless and foolhardy as a rule, had been so stridently against it? Constance raised her voice a little.

 

“Would you like some wine, d’Artagnan?”

 

D’Artagnan entered the room; he had been eavesdropping from the doorway and had the grace to look a little sheepish as he nodded. He looked drained, from recent exercise or because of what he’d overheard. Constance gave him a slightly reproving look; she had after all intended to discuss this with him once she’d spoken to her husband.

 

“Captain Treville wishes you to know that you are missed.”

 

D’Artagnan smiled at that and thanked Jacques for the full wine glass that was being placed in front him. D’Artagnan’s fingers only shook slightly when he lifted it to his lips. Even in their absence, his friends possessed the capacity to hurt him. It was as infuriating as they were.

 

D’Artagnan sighed, his pain and longing so visible as he stared into his glass. “They’re never going to see me, are they? They’re just going to see the child they think I am.”

 

“And their own mistakes and regrets,” pointed out Jacques, gesturing with his own glass. “That they don’t wish you to repeat.”

 

D’Artagnan’s face turned contemplative and the three of them mused in silence until the wine bottle was empty.

 

*

 

“Madame?”

 

Madeline sounded concerned when she called for Constance’s attention. When Constance looked past her to the front door, she could see why; Aramis was stood there, a determined bent to his body and face. When his gaze met Constance’s, there was pleading present as well. Constance stood an immediate step forward.

 

“Inform Monsieur Bonacieux of our visitor,” she told her maid.

 

Madeline disappeared immediately, leaving Constance with Aramis who did not sound nervous at all when he launched into what were no-doubt prepared words.

 

“Constance, I know you have requested that we not call upon you and I’m sure d’Artagnan has healed well but please, would you allow me to aid in his recovery too?”

 

Constance looked at him for a measured moment; there was something like affection in Aramis’ face and something more, something freer. What had happened?

 

“What’s changed? Why should I allow you the chance to hurt him again?”

 

“You spoke of risk and courage, you were quite right to. All three of us have ghosts we’d rather not speak of yet they dog our thoughts and steps regardless. Perhaps they blinded us too.”

 

That was more of an admission than Constance had expected. She gazed at him for a moment more, noting the ease in his face that had not been there when she had encountered him at the barracks. She wished to know more and sadly, an open doorway was no place for such a discussion. So she stepped back and permitted Aramis to enter the house. He did so with an immensely relieved and grateful look.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Constance indicated that he should stay where he was and not attempt to scale the staircase yet. He acquiesced with visible disappointment.

 

“I trust there is more?” Constance said pointedly.

 

Aramis swept his hat from his head and nodded, his voice quiet as though fully aware that others in the house were likely straining to listen.

 

“We spoke, myself, Athos and Porthos, after you left. It was a...lively conversation which involved one or two of us absenting themselves for a time before returning but we reached a stimulating accord.”

 

His eyes sparkled at that, Constance had already grasped his meaning – he, Athos and Porthos had admitted something of their feelings for each other and perhaps had embarked on an agreeable arrangement between the three of them. It had taken them along enough.

 

“At last,” was her only comment.

 

Aramis looked amused, “Don’t tell me you entertain such scandalous thoughts, Madame Bonacieux.”

 

“Don’t tell me it’s taken you three so long to admit what Jacques and I have known for months.”

 

That got her a rueful head nod, “I bow to your superior deduction and observation skills. D’Artagnan was discussed as well of course; some of us needed convincing that even such discussions wouldn’t drag d’Artagnan down to a level from which he and his career would never recover. But discuss him we did. He does matter, Constance, so much so that we hurt him abominably in an effort to prevent him from suffering.”

 

“Suffering what, exactly?”

 

Aramis sighed, “Rumour, scandal, pain the Cardinal discovering some morsel that he could use as leverage against all Musketeers. And us of course, always us.”

 

“D’Artagnan makes his own choices and his own mistakes,” Constance reminded him firmly. “For some reason, his heart is set on the three of you and has been for some time. He knows you, better than most. He’s not blind to your faults. This is no childish infatuation.”

 

A tiny smile, wondering and warm, formed on Aramis’ face. “I, we know. We do. And I think we’d all like the chance to be as courageous as him.”

 

This was the crux, just as Jacques appeared, a look of thunder on his face. Aramis bowed respectfully, no mirth on his face.

 

“Monsieur.”

 

“You have a great deal of nerve, Musketeer.”

 

Constance touched Jacques’ arm, preventing his anger from pouring forth. He looked at her in clear incredulous question but she nodded. Aramis had not pretended as though this would be easy, that all pain would be swept aside with such a step but a significant change had occurred, she could see that just from his expression. This was a man who really couldn’t believe his luck, a man who had been touched by a happiness that he hadn’t believed would ever be his, and he was determined, to try with d’Artagnan as well as with Athos and Porthos. It was the most sense that Constance had ever heard Aramis speak.

 

It was enough to warrant a chance. So she nodded towards the stairs and watched as Aramis’ face lit up. He rushed up the staircase without a backward glance. Jacques turned to his wife in disbelief.

 

“You cannot think that he will-.”

 

“They’re no longer blind.”

 

Jacques paused and raised a sceptical eyebrow, “Truly?”

 

“Words have been spoken and actions taken, by all three of them, together.”

 

Jacques glanced up the stairs thoughtfully. “So the next step is taken. And we should ensure it is a good one.”

 

He offered a hand to Constance; she took it with a slight knowing smile because she had been harbouring similar thoughts herself. The two of them walked quickly and quietly up the stairs, heading straight for d’Artagnan’s room. Constance trusted that they wouldn’t have to interfere but she wanted to be sure. She did not want to see d’Artagnan as wrecked by his friends as he had been before.

 

So the two of them listened outside of the ajar door, their hands intertwined and their breathing as quiet as possible. It wasn’t a respectable thing to do but it was absolutely essential.

 

“...and these have healed up very nicely,” came Aramis’ voice.

 

“Thank you.”

 

D’Artagnan sounded muted and wary. Aramis sighed and there was a loud soft sound combined with a creak, like someone had sat down on the bed.

 

“I am sorry, d’Artagnan, we all are. Your pain...we hate to have been the cause of it.”

 

“What do you want, Aramis?”That was d’Artagnan, sharp and sick of excuses. Good.

 

“I’m here to speak for all of us, to explain our ineptitudes and ask you to grant us another chance to respond to what you said that day at the cottage.”

 

D’Artagnan’s breath hitched in his throat. Constance reflexively clenched her fingers around Jacques’.

 

“I thought none of you-.”

 

“We did, we do, we’re just...it’s a great risk, d’Artagnan, for us, for any who know about it. And we all thought.” Here Aramis laughed ruefully, bitterly perhaps, before continuing. “We all thought that you deserved better than that, than us.”

 

There was a startled pause before d’Artagnan’s anger exploded, “That wasn’t your choice to make!”

 

“I know but we were thinking only of your happiness and safety.”

 

“My happiness and my safety are _my_ decisions. Did you think I was incapable of deciding for myself?”

 

D’Artagnan sounded both upset and angry now and Jacques looked as though he wanted to open the door further and march inside. Constance wanted to as well but d’Artagnan had put it best – this was his choice. She would wait until it was clear that Aramis’ presence was no longer wanted. She would do that for d’Artagnan. She was not going to drop to the level of certain Musketeers.

 

“I think we forget sometimes just what you’re capable of,” mused Aramis distantly. “The mind can play tricks. All of us have our wounds, d’Artagnan, you may have noticed.”

 

There was an almost imperceptible sound. Constance peered through the sliver of space that the door currently allowed and spied Aramis sat beside d’Artagnan whose mouth was twitching into something like a smile. Aramis was looking at him as though he really needed to keep his eyes fixed on d’Artagnan. His hand gently touched d’Artagnan’s arm.

 

“We are trying,” Aramis said quietly. “We have started to try together and would like, if you’d allow it, to try with you.”

 

D’Artagnan stilled and looked at Aramis very intently. “You’ve talked? All three of you?”

 

It was Aramis’ turn to smile now and he inched a little closer to d’Artagnan. “Yes, even Athos. I’m not claiming it was easy or comfortable but we remain happily unscathed and united. It's what we all want.”

 

“Me,” murmured d’Artagnan as though he wasn’t sure he could believe it.

 

“You.”

 

Aramis raised his hand now to cup d’Artagnan’s face, d’Artagnan’s eyes fluttered shut and he pressed into Aramis’ touch. Their breathing became heavy until d’Artagnan opened his eyes, they were dark and liquid, and Aramis made a wanting sound, leaning in to claim d’Artagnan’s mouth with his own. D’Artagnan made a sound as wanting as Aramis’.

 

Constance straightened abruptly, her heart racing. That was enough. She tugged on Jacques’ hand pointedly, he frowned but she arched her eyebrows and Jacques seemed to reluctantly agree because he followed her downstairs into the salon where he spoke quietly.

 

“We cannot be sure.”

 

Constance tipped her head in agreement, “We cannot. But things have changed.”

 

Jacques harrumphed but he didn’t disagree. He had seen the difference in Aramis too. Constance smiled softly, it had been good to see d’Artagnan happy and if both Porthos and Athos were as determined and courageous then Constance would support d’Artagnan’s choice. The others knew they would suffer if they failed him again.

 

Before she could voice any of her thoughts, Aramis and d’Artagnan made their way down the staircase together. Constance gave d’Artagnan a searching questioning look; he had a little more colour to his cheeks and he was standing close to Aramis who looked a bit too self-satisfied though that was counterbalanced by the sheer gladness and gratitude that appeared every time he glanced towards d’Artagnan.

 

“The barracks won’t be any trouble, everyone’s already quite used to us sleeping in one room,” Aramis told Constance and Jacques.

 

“And yet, you didn’t realise what that could indicate,” pointed out Jacques with highly-arched eyebrows.

 

Aramis pulled a self-deprecating expression with remarkably good humour and his side brushed against d’Artagnan’s, “Love makes fools of us all.”

 

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened at such an admission but Aramis didn’t look in the least bit sorry as he continued, “We would beg your indulgence in allowing us to meet here again, to discuss matters.”

 

Jacques did not turn to Constance but she knew that he could feel her eyes on him. After a tense moment, he nodded slowly.

 

“If voices are raised or unjust words are-.”

 

“I assure you we will deserve whatever punishment you and your good wife conjure up.”

 

Jacques nodded his head sharply, “I’m sure you’re expected back at the barracks now.”

 

Aramis smiled at Jacques’ pointed tone but didn’t disagree. “Yes, I expect I am.”

 

He turned to d’Artagnan with an adoring heated gaze and meaningfully kissed his hand, “It’s an honour.”

 

D’Artagnan made a noise of frustration and audible greed, then he hauled Aramis closer by his shirt and kissed him deeply, a message to take back to the others perhaps. Perhaps that had been Aramis’ intention because he kissed d’Artagnan just as ardently, his hands holding d’Artagnan close. Jacques didn’t need to clear his throat more than once. Aramis kissed d’Artagnan’s lips quickly once, twice, then with great effort turned back to Constance and Jacques.

 

“A charming evening.” Seriousness claimed his expression though as he pressed a hand to his heart. “My deepest thanks.”

 

With a last hungry look at d’Artagnan, Aramis left swiftly, as though knowing that prolonging his departure would only wrench them both more. Constance wondered for a moment how many such goodbyes Aramis had been part of before. It couldn’t matter, what mattered was the goodbye he had just enacted with d’Artagnan.

 

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” remarked Jacques.

 

D’Artagnan’s face was flushed and he looked so happy, though traces of darkness remained in his expression. He shrugged slightly.

 

“I _really_ hope so too.”

 

Constance couldn’t help laughing; something that made d’Artagnan look relieved and pleased. It was good to see him looking so light. That was a good step forward, it just remained to be seen what would happen next. But things had changed, on a level that Constance had been almost sure wouldn’t happen.

 

“Now we’ll see if anyone else has the same courage,” she reminded d’Artagnan softly.

 

D’Artagnan’s expression dimmed but he didn’t wilt. Instead he looked familiarly determined as he canted close to Constance, making a duelling gesture with one hand.

 

“I need to keep practising, for when I’m back on duty.”

 

Jacques raised his eyes heavenwards but he didn’t stop either of them. Constance kissed his cheek; after the day’s events d’Artagnan wasn’t the only one who wished for some distraction and clearing of thoughts.

 

“Somewhere they won’t find us,” Constance stated, stepping towards the kitchen in order to retrieve her blade.

 

“Of course.”

 

D’Artagnan sounded offended at the thought that he wouldn’t be able to find such a place. Constance handed him her sword.

 

*

 

Less than two days later, Porthos appeared at the front door. Once Constanec let him in, his eyes immediately sought out d’Artagnan who was stood close by, carrying an armful of mending. Porthos' hands clearly wanted to check that d’Artagnan was truly well. D’Artagnan looked at him hungrily until Porthos’ patience snapped and he began sweeping his hands across the planes of d’Artagnan’s body.

 

Constance left at that point. To have deniability was the best discourse. Of course half an hour later, she walked into the salon to find d’Artagnan being pressed up against the armoire by Porthos, their mouths greedily fused together. D’Artagnan didn’t look the least bit sorry when he noticed Constance’s presence.

 

Porthos had the good manners to apologise but “It’s been too long.”

 

“Yes, it has,” Constance replied very pointedly.

 

Porthos smiled like Aramis had; rueful but pleased and heated as well as he gazed back at d’Artagnan, “We thought we were doing right by him.”

 

“Maybe let his voice be heard next time,” Constance said.

 

D’Artagnan nodded at that with a look on his face that said he wouldn’t take being so dismissed again. Porthos tugged him closer and d’Artagnan’s expression cracked with adoration and want. Porthos didn’t stay much longer though; the others were waiting for him and they were trying to be careful.

 

“And we don’t want to crowd you, after everything.”

 

“What if I want to be crowded?”

 

Porthos’ eyes darkened and what could have been a growl escaped him. He kissed and manhandled d’Artagnan with an ease and want that left d’Artagnan looking somewhat dazed. Constance saw Porthos out, surprised and pleased when he asked her to pass on his regards to her husband, clearly more had changed than she’d realised, and she accepted Porthos’ thanks for how she and Jacques had looked after d’Artagnan.

 

“I don’t want to see him like that again,” she warned.

 

Porthos nodded, his eyes revealing tensions of guilt and pain. “Yeah, me neither.”

 

He paused before speaking again, “Didn’t think it was possible, that they’d all feel like this. I don’t want to lose it.”

 

Constance looked at him for a moment; she didn’t know much about Porthos’ past, only that he wasn’t highborn, like Athos or Aramis were. D’Artagnan had mentioned that Porthos had fought his way up to his position through the great obstacles of his childhood so Porthos was strong and determined. As long as he and the others weren’t again all bound by the same hesitance and fear, as long as d’Artagnan’s voice was now heard and valued too.

 

“See that you don’t,” she replied at last, quiet but firm.

 

*

 

Athos spoke to d’Artagnan behind the Bonacieuxs' house. Constance watched them through a window and past a rucked curtain; they stood near a wall and talked, Athos mentioned again how d’Artagnan could be ruined by others’ opinions, how he could find a much more uncomplicated worthwhile less damaging happiness. D’Artagnan touched Athos, running his fingers over the details of Athos’ uniform, determined not to let Athos back away. Athos’ words tailed off, his gaze keen on d’Artagnan, then he wrapped his hand around d’Artagnan’s moving fingers. They both stilled, only Athos’ thumb stroked against d’Artagnan’s skin.

 

“I’d...I’d like to see you, all three of you, together,” d’Artagnan murmured quietly.

 

Athos let out a breath. Their voices then became too quiet to hear. Constance let the curtain fall.

 

*

 

Constance kept her sword in the bedroom now, close at hand, propped up against the wall. Jacques didn’t approve but he didn’t object; he understood that danger could grow rapidly around them. Neither of them had hesitated though, in helping d’Artagnan, in doing what they could to see to his happiness. Perhaps others would have shied away, disgusted or frightened of the danger. Even Musketeers had hesitated.

 

For Constance, it had been an easy choice. She had only doubted when Aramis, Porthos and Athos had stung d’Artagnan with their rejection, as though he hadn’t truly known what he’d wanted, as though their pasts should dictate his future, as though he would and should forget how he felt about them. It’d been a risk for Jacques and Constance to allow a young untried Musketeer to live in their house; it’d been a risk for them to allow his fellow Musketeers to spend so much time there. Life in such times was always a risk.

 

It hadn’t stopped Aramis, Porthos and Athos until it had.

 

Courageous Musketeers.

 

“If they shatter his heart again-.”

 

“Then your sword will be most useful.”

 

Jacques and Constance smiled at each other. Their joining was not guilty that night, it was full of joy and gratitude, a promise made that would always be kept. Constance did not know if Aramis, Porthos and Athos would keep any of the vows that they’d made to d’Artagnan. She knew that they wanted to. She and Jacques would be watching though, with and without swords.

 

_-the end_


End file.
